


a fragment of her

by self_indulgent_authorship



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Essentially android Alzheimer’s, F/M, Good Elijah Kamski, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Major Character Injury, Memory Loss, Mentions of Suicide, Panic Attacks, Poor Connor, Protective Connor, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, What Have I Done, but it's part of the premise, it's vague, prepare yourself for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/self_indulgent_authorship/pseuds/self_indulgent_authorship
Summary: Connor shot himself during the speech.Desperate, the reader finds a way to bring him back.He's not the same.





	a fragment of her

There was darkness, only darkness. He remembered that...a sudden darkness, a heavy sort, if darkness could be heavy. If there was darkness there must have been something light before it, but he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember what had happened to bring him here, or where here even was, technically. All he could remember was darkness.

There was a voice, after some time, one he heard when he first started coming back, not one that he immediately recognized. Strange, this voice, low and authoritative. Then another, a harsh voice, more familiar, but angry and cracking. Shouting something incomprehensible to him. Then another voice, softer this time, more familiar to him, but he couldn’t hear it well enough to place it. They fought, these voices, for hours it seemed, fought for his attention, or to bring him back, he wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t quite tell, wherever he was, how much time had passed, or what exactly the voices were saying. Was this sleep? Was that what this was? He didn’t think he was meant to sleep…but everything seemed to be a mess in his mind at the moment.

At some point, those voices got louder, the softer of the two got closer to him, and the darkness was going away. Had there always been darkness? He wasn’t sure...but either way it was going away, and he could hear much more clearly, suddenly, he could see, at least partially, though his vision seemed to be blurred. He blinked, trying to clear away the haze, but it lingered. Opting to ignore it instead, he tried to focus on the face looming above him.

And it was _her,_  looking down at him nervously.

He wasn’t sure what had happened. But he knew who she was when he woke up, of course he did, how could he forget her? Her smile, and her tears, when she saw he was awake, saw the recognition resting in his expression. He knew the feeling of her hands in his, knew this was right, this was how he was supposed to be. Her hands were on his face now, softly, and she was saying something to him, but he was so focused on her eyes that he didn’t catch what she said. He knew her—he was sure of it, he knew her, this was…a weight seemed to lift when he realized she was _here,_  she was here, it was okay now, surely it was okay now. He knew her, knew her hands, her face, her eyes, he _knew_ her.

Her hands were like fire as they rested on his face, but he didn’t want them to go away. He reached for her like she was the only thing he knew, and to a certain extent she was. She could see it in his eyes, but she was too thankful at the moment to be picky. She was just happy that he was alive, that he recognized her, that there was some chance. He held onto her hands desperately, without really knowing why, but he needed her, he needed her, that he was sure of. He had known her, he _knew_ her, she was…she was everything.

As they drove away, he realized he couldn’t remember her name.

She had said it at some point, he knew she had, he had heard her, but he couldn’t seem to hold it. He couldn’t seem to hold onto anything. He should know her name, why couldn’t he remember her name? He had known her…he didn’t know how long, but he had known her…enough to instantly recognize the feeling of her hand in his, to steady out at the sound of her voice, to reach for her without a thought about why. And he couldn’t remember who she was. Why? What had…what had happened? Where was he?

He searched his memory and found nothing but errors, broken sections of code and corrupted storage, the only remnant some phantom pain, some uncategorizable sorrow that he couldn’t place. His memory seemed to be a mess, like something had…disrupted it somehow. But she was there, he was certain of it, how else could he know her so instantly, need her touch so hopelessly. He could hardly remember how he had gotten into this car, how was he going to find her in the shattered mess of his mind? Still, he tried, and he tried, but his memory only spiraled further away from him the more he searched. Who was she? Who was _he?_  He couldn’t…he couldn’t remember anything.

She was saying something to him, but he couldn’t seem to focus on the words, only the sound, the rise and fall of her voice. A hand still held tightly to his own, even as she drove. He wouldn’t let go of her hand. Not ever. When he held her hand, it felt like some part of him was back from wherever it had disappeared to. It was only a ghost of a memory, a fragment of a fragment, but it was there. He didn’t want that to go away. He didn’t want her to go away. If he let go…something told him she would go too, and he didn’t want to forget her. He couldn’t forget her, he needed her, that much he was certain of.

Where did this feeling come from? He didn’t try to answer that question. She was the answer, she calmed the jumbling in his mind, at least for the briefest of moments...if he could just remember her, maybe…maybe the rest would come back too. There was so much missing, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t seem to hold onto the words that she was saying even now. She was holding his hand, he knew that, but there were so many other things going on—so many things flying past him as they drove away. Some of it looked familiar, but most of it was a blur. Where were they? Why were they here? Had he done something?

The car had stopped, and as fast as it had come, her hand was gone from his, and he was alone, dropped back to only himself, and he couldn’t remember why. Any resumption of the past had left instantly with her hand, and he looked around as if seeing the car for the first time. It was like he had just woken up. Some shred of a broken program was telling him to find out where he was, orient himself—how had he gotten here? His eyes landed on the house that the car was parked in front of, and something told him he had seen it before, but…that was all he could grasp. Should he get out? Why was he here? Remember, remember something—why couldn’t he remember anything?

The door opened abruptly, and he jumped, looking over in alarm, he wasn’t sure why. But it was…it was _her,_  opening the door. She hesitated when he jumped, something in her expression flickering to sadness as he stared up at her with confusion. The confusion remained, even as he recognized her, only shifting in his expression to make room for a thousand other things he felt. There was something like wonder in his eyes when he looked at her, too, like he couldn’t believe that she was real, couldn’t believe that she was standing in front of him. That look had a certain familiarity to it, from before. But she could tell it was more than just that usual attention she had always gotten from him. This was more than his love, this was his confusion, trying to place her somewhere in his memory and failing. She could see the conflict there, in his eyes, alongside the concern for where he was, the daze and the fear. It made her want to cry again, but she brushed it off with a sad smile, opening his door the rest of the way and lowering herself to his eye level.

She was saying something to him softly, her voice like music, and he _knew_ that voice, but from where? Where had she come from? He was reaching for her, for her hand, again, even though he still didn’t know why. She smiled, but her eyes were heavy as she took his hand in her own, interlacing their fingers gently. His eyes were immediately on their hands, because this was…this was right, he knew this feeling. Her voice came to him again, in pieces, in memory and in moment, and her hand tightened around his briefly. She grabbed him lightly by the shoulder, coaxing him slowly from the car—how had he gotten in a car? He didn’t remember a car—her hands were warm, he noticed, and thought that fact odd, but he couldn’t place why.

There was snow falling, he could feel it hitting his face as she lead him away from the car. He’d felt snow before...there was something about this that was familiar…snow falling, and another voice, shouting something at him angrily, fear…but it was gone as soon as it had come, leaving him confused. A memory of her, of standing a few inches apart, somewhere he couldn’t remember…a different memory of her voice, her crying, calling to him…her hands on his face, everything fading away…why couldn’t he remember? Why did he have these memories of her, and no idea where they came from? He didn’t know why they were so disjointed, or even her name, he couldn’t remember her name…he couldn’t remember his own name, either…

Slowly, like she was afraid he would run away, she lead him up the steps and into the house. It was warmer inside, and he once again got the feeling that he had certainly been here before, but he couldn’t place it. He was trying to focus on her, trying to place her somewhere in his mind, but still he was failing. Something must have happened, he _knew_ something was wrong with him. But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t remember, he could hardly think straight. His memories were slipping away from him, like water through his hands, and he could do nothing to stop that flow. The only thing grounding him in something like reality was her hand, and he knew that if she let go, he would be alone again, alone in an unknown with no idea how he had gotten there.

She said something quietly to him, and his eyes found hers again, found them cloudy with tears. Why was she crying? He didn’t want her to cry…He tightened his grip on her hand on some instinct, and she looked down at their hands for a moment, like she was surprised at the sudden gesture. But she looked up at him again, smiling a little sadly at him before squeezing his hand back, brushing the stray hair out of his face as she spoke, but he couldn’t catch the words.

She had done that before, he was certain of it. There was something so familiar about it. A half reaction crossed his face before he was confused by it, trying to understand where it had come from, why he was so certain she had done that before. Where did he know her from? Why couldn’t he remember her—beyond the assurance that he knew her, that it was absolutely correct for her to be holding his hand like this, to be so close to him and speak so softly. He wanted to say something to her, but he couldn’t find the words to do so, if his voice even worked, he couldn’t remember. There were thousands of questions in his mind, all of which he knew he should have had the answers to, but he didn’t. He couldn’t remember.

There were flashes of things, images, scattered and distorted, but he couldn’t sort them out for what they were, or when they had happened. He could see the snow again, a dark sky, a crowd of androids…he could hear a voice that he no longer recognized…he felt cold, like he had never experienced before…then he felt _nothing,_  but he could hear _her_ , and it was horrible, her voice was jagged, desperate, her hands like fire on his face…Anything before that memory was gone, and anything after it was broken. He couldn’t remember anything except this half destroyed memory, and even this would be gone in only seconds, he knew it, he couldn’t hold onto anything anymore, it all slipped away.

He didn’t realize he was crying until she brushed the tears off his face, her touch light as she hushed him, her voice soothing, soft and quiet. He still couldn’t seem to focus on her words, but it was alright, her voice was enough to steady him, even when he wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so distressed. His mind couldn’t remember why, but his body seemed to have a handle on something he didn’t. She was looking at him almost nervously, her voice low as she spoke, a certain hesitance there, like she didn’t want to scare him.

After a moment, she put her arms around him carefully, holding him close and whispering softly to him. He was frozen, stunned and confused and so lost, halfway between the broken memory of something he couldn’t quite see and the current moment. But after a pause he held onto her as well, slowly putting his arms around her, unsure, and her voice halted in her speech as she pulled him closer to her.

He could feel her tears on his shirt.

*******

Time didn’t pass correctly for him anymore. It only seemed to flow when he could see her, and when she was gone it was like he was living in limbo. When she was gone, he got disoriented, he didn’t know where he was, or how much time had passed. Sometimes it seemed like he had just woken up, and he felt he should certainly remember how he had gotten to this strange place, wherever he was. He would completely forget that she had ever been there, it was like resetting any progress he might have made toward remembering. When she came back, he looked at her with the same shock at her presence if she had been gone an hour or only a minute.

Every time she returned, he was desperate to make sure she wouldn’t leave, desperate to make sure he would remember something, anything, of this moment or the ones before it. But he never could, it always escaped him before he could grasp it. Sometimes he thought he got close to something, but then she would leave, or he would be distracted, or the memory would fall through his hands. No matter how he tried he returned to the same state of confusion every time, with no recollection of how many times he had tried to remember, or even what he was trying to remember.

At first, she had tried to get him to remember. She tried to ask him, begged him to tell her why, why had he done it? But he didn’t seem to understand her words, he only watched her quietly, that confusion in his eyes. He never answered her questions; he never spoke. If she got upset, if she cried or raised her voice in frustration, he would panic, completely unsure what to do. He looked so lost in those moments, and she knew that he didn’t understand why her mood would suddenly change; he could hardly catch the meaning of her words most of the time, he was clueless to what she was trying to ask him. The only thing he seemed able to understand was tone; her inflection and her expressions were all he had to go off of, and when they were desynchronized from her words, he didn’t know. When she got upset—when she cried, or shouted, or her tone shifted to desperation—he only became more confused, and more frantic in his hold on her, like he thought she would leave him. He was trying to understand, trying to calm her down in the only way he seemed capable. She was never angry at him; this wasn’t his fault, but she wished he could answer her questions, give her some kind of explanation for what had happened. But he couldn’t.

When it became clear he wasn’t going to remember from her questions, she tried a different tactic. She got him out of the house, took him to places he should have known, should have remembered at least something about. Stratford. The outside of the DPD. She even took him to Jimmy’s Bar. She thought she got close when she took him to the park overlooking the bridge, but even then he had forgotten so fast. Nothing worked. He would look around, and for the briefest moment, that recognition would flit through his eyes; but it was gone in seconds, and he only looked more confused in its wake. He would look at her as if she had the answers, but she could only look at him sadly and lead him away, toward the next location. After a few seconds he would be back to his usual self, as if they had never visited the place they just were.

His strongest reaction came when they went to the park where it had happened.

The park had largely returned to its previous state, with almost no evidence of the massive protest that had happened less than two months ago. Thousands of androids had stood on this spot, had poured into the city from this point, and he had lead them here. The others had died not far from here, at the barricade where the recycling camp had been set up. Many of them had been repaired, in the weeks following, and Markus was leading the deviants once again, but their return did nothing to make the events of that day less traumatic for everyone involved. Everyone had avoided the place like the plague. She didn’t want to be back in this park, but she was running out of options, trying to get him to remember something, anything to explain _why_. She hoped that this place, if any of them, would jog something in him, some thought as to why he had done it. Perhaps he could finally explain to her, finally push past the confusion and the damage to see what he had done, if he even remembered it.

He froze at the sight of the place, stumbling to a halt before they had really reached where she had expected to go. She looked up at him, but he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at where the makeshift stage had been, where everything had happened. The confusion she had become accustomed to seemed gone from his eyes, but it had been replaced by fear, and a fear so strong that it was making him shake, his grip on her hand tightening. She called his name, but he didn’t seem to hear her, and she was overwhelmed by a horrible deja vu to that day. She said his name again, louder this time, trying to get his attention, but still he didn’t respond. He was frozen, fixed in place in some kind of shocked horror as he stared at where the stage had been.

He dropped her hand suddenly, backing away but unable to take his eyes off of that spot in the distance. He never let go of her hand—this was bad. She called his name, but he didn’t respond, shaking more visibly now as he backed away another few steps. Then he turned, nearly tripping over his own feet as he sprinted in the opposite direction. She ran after him, calling his name over and over, but he didn’t stop, he only kept running, not daring to look back. Panic filled her as she chased him, fear that she would lose him again, that he would do something drastic. She was running as fast as she could, and still she was only just keeping up with him.

It wasn’t until he had made it back into a more neutral part of the city that he stopped, somewhere even she didn’t recognize, some side street they had never been on. He slowed, looking around frantically, his hands grasping for something to hold onto, his shoulders shaking. She caught up to him a few seconds later, watching him as he looked around the alley they were in, the lost look slowly returning to his eyes.

Why was he here? Where was he? He had run away…from what he wasn’t sure, but it was terrible, whatever it was. It was already slipping away from him, but he could still feel the fear, and the snow on his face, and her voice, and then the darkness. Was that just now, or was it a memory? He couldn’t remember…he could never remember. He looked around the alley in a daze, unsure what to do or where he was, and quickly tending toward panic at that realization, hands pulling at the ends of his jacket sleeves. His breathing was erratic, and there was a warning in the corner of his vision, but he couldn’t seem to focus on it. A hand rested gently on his arm and he jerked away, turning around with fear in his eyes, but it softened when he saw it was only her.

He pulled away from her touch in fear, she knew this, but it still stung, made her pause and think he might take off running again. But he turned to face her, and something in his expression seemed to shift, like the memory wasn’t quite gone from his mind yet. There was horrible pain in his eyes, some kind of grief, and fear all jumbled up and making no sense. For the briefest moment, she thought he might say something to her, explain himself finally, or tell her what had happened to him on that stage. But he didn’t.

Instead, he lurched forward, grabbing onto her suddenly, and with a desperation she hadn’t expected. He held her tighter than he ever had before, his arms stiff and awkward, his face buried in her hair, and he was still shaking, hard, crying now for reasons he didn’t quite know. He was holding onto her like he believed she would slip away from him, like he would never see her again. She had become used to calming him down when he got confused, when he panicked when he was alone, or when he didn’t understand. But this was more than that, this was grief, and overwhelming fear, heavy, weighing him down.

Perhaps he knew why she had taken him to that place, perhaps he did understand, however briefly, what she was trying to ask of him. But he couldn’t tell her, couldn’t keep the memory long enough to understand, let alone convey to her why he had done what he did. All this memory left him was a sense of grief and fear, grief for what had happened, and fear for what could have happened, and a horrible feeling that she was going to leave him alone again, and he couldn’t be alone. He needed her, that much he could never forget.

She held him for quite some time, trying to calm him down, for once trying to make him forget what had happened to him. She had no idea if he was hearing what she said to him, but she kept her voice low, and she let him hold onto her, even though his grip was near crushing. Guilt was rolling through her stomach, and she tried to push it away to focus on him, focus on steadying the shaking in his hands as he held onto her, get him to slow his frantic breathing, loosen his grip just a touch. As much as she wanted to know why he had done what he did—as much as she needed to understand if there was a reason behind his actions, as much as she wanted to take him back to that place and try to get him to talk—she knew she couldn’t do it to him. She couldn’t destroy him like this, not when he had so little to hold onto anyway, so little to steady him, so little that made sense to him. When he had calmed down enough to loosen his grip on her, she put her arm around him and lead him away from that place, back toward home.

The entire walk back he shook.

********

When he had first come back, there were people who wanted to see him. Hank was the first among them. Although he had fought with her and shouted at her over the entire event, when she told him she brought him home, he appeared the next day. But when he saw how bad things were, how little he remembered and how quiet he was now, the fight had broken open once again, and soon enough Hank was shouting, his words angry and his eyes on fire. In a rare display of her own anger, she had shouted back at him, her voice breaking. The fight had only ended because of how much it upset him to see them yell at each other. He had no idea what either of them were saying, or why they were saying it, or even a clear idea of who Hank was, but he knew they were speaking about him. That he could tell, from the pointing, and the way she was crying, and the way Hank kept glancing at him. It made him nervous, and he had panicked, watching them, flinching at the raise in their tone, the anger in their words. She noticed it first, the look in his eyes and the way he was fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket, nearly tearing it. It had taken her a long time to calm him down afterward, even after Hank had left.

After that, she was more careful with who she let see him, not that many more tried. Hank didn’t reappear after that (though he called, occasionally, and they were on better terms). However, Markus had been repaired at this point, and wanted to know what had happened. He had heard, of course, what had occurred after he had been damaged, but much like she needed to understand, Markus wanted to know why what happened on the stage happened.  

The whole situation, particularly what followed the initial event, was a strange one, largely kept away from the public eye (at least as much as possible). Markus had only found out that he was alive from one of the androids who had been at the stage. After it had happened, they had tried to calm her down, this strange human who had shown up with him when they came back from the Tower, who was crying so horribly and holding onto him so tightly. They had helped her take him away, and they had watched her drive off, far too fast, her destination unknown to them, at least then. But they had heard her, when she had answered one of them what she was doing. And so when Markus asked what had happened to him, they told him what they knew.

It was several weeks after she brought him home that Markus knocked on the door. At this point, she had given up trying to understand, resigned to the fact that she would never know why he had done it, and had instead focused on trying to make him as happy as he could be, in this situation. It meant staying close to him, and talking to him, even though he never answered, taking him around town to places he had never been, playing music for him, which he seemed to like. They were doing largely what she wished they could have done anyway, only he was always a little confused, and needed a firm grip on her hand to keep him in the moment, otherwise he got disoriented. She hated leaving him alone and only did it when she was forced.

The knock at the door was one of these times. The last time a knock had come to the door, it had been Hank, and that altercation hadn’t ended well. It was better if she answered the door without him, at least at first, to see who it was and take care of whoever they were if need be. She didn’t want anything like what had happened with Hank to happen again, and she would make sure that whoever it was at the door, they wouldn’t upset him.

He jumped at the sound of the knocking, turning toward the door with a strange look on his face. Perhaps he did remember when Hank had come over, after all. But the look was quickly replaced with confusion, as she stood and let go of his hand to get the door. He reached after her, looking at her with alarm, but she spoke quietly to him, shaking her head and gesturing for him to stay. Where was she going? He watched her nervously as she walked over to the door, fingers ripping at the edge of his sleeve absentmindedly.

She pulled the door open forcefully and froze, her hand tightening around the back handle. There was another voice, saying something quietly to her—he should have known that voice…it sounded familiar, in a vague sense of the word. She said something in reply, her voice shaking slightly, but not in fear—in anger. She was angry? Why was she angry? She pulled the door closer to her, blocking him from view and filling the frame with herself. The other voice was speaking once again, and he got the sense that some memory was pulling at him, but as he tried to grab it, it slipped away. Her voice came once more, distracting him, and he tried to focus on what she was saying, but couldn’t. Her hand was shaking on the door handle, he noticed.

Without really knowing why, he stood, walking slowly over to her. She didn’t hear him come up, she was still saying something to whoever the person was at the door. It was only when this person looked behind her, at him standing a few inches away, that she reacted, turning around in surprise and cutting herself off mid-sentence. She looked up at him, worry painting itself across her expression as she nudged him back from the door, or tried to, but he didn’t move. He looked down at her briefly before looking again at the person in the doorway, that characteristic confusion in his eyes. It was the same way he had looked at Hank, when he came. A half recognition, and a guilt that he didn’t remember this person fully. They were looking back at him in a different way than Hank had, though, something like shock in their expression where there had only been an angry sort of sadness in Hank’s.

They said something to him, but she cut them off harshly, turning to face them again and blocking him from view as much as she could, but he was taller than her, and could see over her easily. He watched as they spoke back and forth, this person’s voice apologetic, backtracking, and hers slowly fading away from anger, toward something like sadness, defeat even. She let go of the door, wrapping her arms around herself with her head bowed to her chest, making her seem smaller than she already was. Her voice was low as she spoke after that, trembling.

He didn’t want her to cry, didn’t want her voice to shake like that, it shouldn’t have to sound like that. Not a clue what she was saying, but he knew her voice, knew that gentle wavering. He reached for her slowly, even though she was only inches away from him, pulling her hand carefully off her arm and wrapping his hand around it. She didn’t react much, only squeezed his hand and kept talking, but her voice was a little smoother. He wanted to help, but he didn’t know how to, beyond this. Still, this was better. She leaned into him a little, letting her back hit his chest, but keeping her gaze on the person in front of her.

Markus, on the other hand, was watching him, disbelieving of the sight before him. This was not the android he had met aboard Jericho, not that cold eyed machine who had barely deviated, if he were honest. This was not the android who had dove in front of him and North, shooting humans down with deadly precision. This was not the android who had volunteered to blow up the ship so the others could escape in time, quipping sarcastically before running off.

If he had to pinpoint to somewhere, this was closest to the android he had spoken to in the church, after Jericho was lost, and their prospects seemed grim. The regret had softened his expression then, and he had practically welcomed death, if Markus saw fit. He “understood” he had said. But when Markus trusted him, he had just as quickly come up with a plan and left to execute it with that inhuman efficiency of his. Even in deviancy, he had been mechanical, analyzing and cold in his voice, in his movement and mannerisms. But that was all gone, now. Even the softest version of his past self didn’t compare to this image of him in front of Markus now.

He looked much the same, physically, as he always had, but it was something in the set of his expression, something in the way he stood, the way he looked at Markus, and the way he held her hand like that. His eyes held none of their cold, piercing efficiency; they were heavy now, broken somewhere, and perpetually confused. The look he had given Markus was all that he needed to know; he didn’t have a clue who he was, but he looked as if he knew he was meant to know. Something of his memory remained, but not enough to tell him _why_ he knew. He was still stiff in the way he stood, but it was tense now, fearful almost in its unease; he looked like he would flee the room at the first sign of trouble, rather than standing resolute and destroying whatever trouble came his way.

But more than anything, it was the way he behaved toward her that showed the true difference. Of course, Markus had not seen them before everything had happened, but he was sure that this was not the way things had gone. He had come up behind her like a ghost, looking down at her with worry, and almost a desperation. The worry only worsened when she started crying, and he had reached for her with hesitation, but also with alarm. He hardly reacted when she spoke about him, or even said explicitly what had happened, but when her voice thickened and shook, he knew, and he didn’t like it at all. Silent the whole time, and that confusion was always in his expression, but reaching for her nonetheless, and holding onto her tensely. He didn’t let go of her, even after she had calmed down enough to speak evenly to Markus.

When Markus left, she shut the door carefully, still holding his hand. She kept it together long enough to lead him back to where they had been sitting, slumping down next to him on the couch. He was watching her, trying to read her expression; he knew something was still wrong, even if she was quiet now. The memory of the day was already slipping from him, but he could tell that she was upset, he always could.

Her expression finally broke a minute or so later, and she loosened her grip on his hand, but only to lean into him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shirt to hide her tears. He froze, and it only made her cry harder. As she always did, she wished that he would say something, speak to her in that calm way he had, always so sure…he had always been the one who knew what to do, what to say…she missed his voice, missed the way he talked to her, only her. She missed him, and it wasn’t fair to him to think that, she knew it. He couldn’t go back to how he used to be, anymore than she could go back. Lucky, she was lucky to have him here at all, but that didn’t make it any easier to remember the way that things used to be…could have been. But it wouldn’t be. This was reality, now.

He put his arms around her slowly, almost nervously, running a shaky hand through her hair. She went quiet for a moment, surprised by the gesture. He was just as confused by the action; he was certain he had done this before, but he didn’t have a clue when, or why he couldn’t remember. It seemed to be helping though, she was calming down, and that was all that mattered to him. She was mumbling something into his shirt, nestling closer to him, still crying, but not as hopelessly anymore.

Even if he couldn’t remember, he still cared about her…it was still him in there somewhere, some piece of the same person buried under all the confusion and the damage and the fear. The only question was…was it enough?

********

Months passed quietly, slipping away from him without his notice, until suddenly the snow was gone, and the whole world seemed to turn green as he blinked. He got the sense that he had never seen this much green—something about this was particularly different from the understanding he had about the world. Things were always in muted grays, whites, blues. Never more than six or so shades, always covered in snow or rain, it was all he had ever known.

Now everything was lit up in a thousand different colors, all swirling around him in a dizzying way. There was green in the grass, and blue in the sky, and hundreds of other colors in the people passing him by. The whites and the pale blues had bled away to reveal a vibrant underneath, the likes of which he had never seen before. These colors didn’t belong outside, did they? He didn’t know, but it certainly seemed like too much.

Something was missing, but he couldn’t place quite what. He looked around, trying to understand where he found himself. It was some kind of park, a big open space with lots of grass, and people milling around, not paying him any mind. He scanned a few faces, but the names were meaningless to him, telling him nothing, and they were gone far too quickly for him to have any hope of remembering them. Looking around again, he noticed he was under a tree, a massive thing, all leaves and twisted bark, and he was leaning against it, sitting on the ground alone. There were what felt like hundreds of voices around him, shouting and cheering and laughing, but none of them held any weight. He was searching, searching for something, but he didn’t even know what, exactly, as he looked around the park with increasing panic. How had he gotten here? Where was _here_? He couldn’t remember…

Should he leave? But where would he go? He didn’t know where he was, or where would be safe, but here certainly didn’t feel safe. His hands were pulling at the grass underneath him, but he hardly noticed until he had handfuls of grass scattered around him in clumps. There was green on his hands now too. He shouldn’t stay here, he wasn’t supposed to be here—hadn’t he been running from something? There was something he was forgetting, something important. Why couldn’t he remember anything? Think, think.

He got to his feet shakily, looking around once again, trying to figure out where he was. This park was completely unfamiliar to him. People were wandering past, some holding hands, some talking angrily, one of them was pushing a stroller. He scanned their faces but the names all slipped away from him; he didn’t recognize them. Would he recognize any of them? He didn’t think so. There were too many people here, too many people he didn’t know, too many voices shouting and talking and laughing, he was drowning in it. He wasn’t supposed to be here. What had he been doing before? He couldn’t remember, but something was missing, something was wrong, where—where was he?

He had backed himself up against the tree, needing something to hold onto besides the frayed edges of his jacket, which he had already torn to shreds. A breeze blew leaves past him, and he watched them for a moment, distracted by a half present conviction that he had seen something similar once. But it was gone too soon, before he could understand where it had come from, or if it were even real. He was alone again, and confused.

Should he leave? He wasn’t supposed to be here, this wasn’t right—how had he gotten here? He looked around the park, trying to pick out the faces of the people passing him, but none of them were familiar. He was forgetting something—where had he been before this? He had to remember something, anything.

A shadow passed in front of him, and he looked forward again, trying to focus. There was a person standing before him, looming, really, a dark look in their eyes. They said something to him, their hands bunched into fists, voice shaking in anger. He looked at them confusedly; he didn’t recognize this person, not in the slightest. Why were they angry at him? Had he done something? He didn’t understand what they were saying, or why they looked at him with such…hatred.

They spoke to him again, their voice rising, but he didn’t understand what they were saying, he only stared back at them. This seemed to anger them, and they came closer to him, taking up most of his field of view now. He got the urge to back away, but he was already against the tree, and he had no idea what was happening. Why was this person looking at him like that? Why were they practically shouting at him now? People were beginning to look over, some in concern, others in confusion. He couldn’t understand what this person was saying, and they were only getting angrier, it seemed. He looked around again, trying to figure out what to do. Should he walk away? But where would he go? This person was only getting louder, more red in the face as he continued to watch them nervously.

They pushed him back roughly, even though he was already against the tree. A memory flashed briefly before him; he had experienced something similar once, but it was gone too fast. He had no idea what to do. They were still shouting at him, very close to him now. He stared back at them confusedly, trying to understand what they were saying, but he couldn’t.

Someone came up from behind them, pulling them away from him and saying something angrily. He knew that voice. It was _her_ —how did she get here? She couldn’t possibly be here. Why did he remember her so easily, but nothing of how he had gotten to this park, or where it even was? He was so confused, he didn’t understand what was happening.

She had turned the person around and was shouting at them now, her voice high. They were shouting back, pointing at him. People were staring, now, but he hardly noticed; he was focused entirely on her. Her face was red, her voice was cracking, and she was dangerously close to this other person, cutting off their shouting with her own anger. The other person, however, was just as angry as she was, tone rising and rising as they continued to yell over her. Apparently, they had enough, pushing her away from them harshly, still shouting something as she struggled to regain her footing.

Something in him seemed to snap into place for the briefest moment, at the sight of her pushed back like that. There was a burning in his chest, and without thinking about why, or where this assurance of himself had come from, he straightened, his hands clenched into fists as he pulled away from the tree. Her eyes flashed to him as he stalked forward, shock paling the anger on her face. But before she could try to stop him, he had already decked this person across the face, sending them sprawling to the ground with just one punch. They didn’t try to get up. He looked at them on the ground for a moment, something dark in his eyes.

The certainty was gone in a blink, however, and he only looked confused again, backing away from them and looking around the park. Why had he done that? Where had that come from? His eyes landed on her, still frozen watching him from a few feet away. They had pushed her, that was why. He shuffled over to her, hands reaching for her as he tried to see if she was okay. She didn’t look hurt, but there was something strange to her expression, and he couldn’t understand it. She watched him approach with the same shock in her eyes as she had when he had suddenly straightened like that.

For the briefest moment, it almost seemed like he was back, like the old him had somehow dug his way out with such force that surely he would stay. That look in his eyes, as terrifying as it was, was something she recognized, a piece of him she hadn’t seen since before everything had happened. All the things she wanted seemed suddenly in reach, with that look back in his eyes. For just a few seconds, an irrational hope had ballooned in her chest, painfully insisting that he was back, he was okay, he was here again.

But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, as it always went. He blinked and stumbled back, hands already picking at the sleeves of his jacket again in that nervous way he had developed. The rigidity of his stance had sunk again, and the steadiness of his hands was just as swiftly destroyed. When he looked around the park, it was with the same confusion that always occupied his eyes, only clearing for a moment when he found her, but even then, it was the same half recognition. The same confused assurance that he knew her, the same desperate misunderstanding of where he was. And he came to her like he always did, frantically reaching for her to answer the unspoken question in his eyes, to solve this problem he didn’t understand. He looked her over, like he expected to find her hurt, but that was the only difference in his expression as he came up to her. When she was quiet, only staring at him as the shock slowly faded, his confusion seemed to amplify, and he hesitated. But ultimately, he reached for her again, hands shaking, eyes broken.

She took his hand, but she couldn’t meet his eyes, leading him quietly away and out of the park. He held onto her hand tightly, and soon enough, the incident was gone from his memory as they walked through the city. But for her, it was still rolling through her mind, still tormenting her with its possibility, it’s taunt of the past. The thoughts plaguing her were not fair to him, but they were raw, and she couldn’t do a thing to stop them, nor could she rid herself of this horrible wish that he could change, the wish for comfort in the way he used to be. She needed the him of the past, but all that remained of him was this broken fragment, this shred of the person she had fallen in love with.

Half of her was grieving the man she had lost, but the other half of her was holding onto the only piece of him she still had, and holding onto him desperately.

********

A year had passed. How had it been an entire year? A whole twelve months since her entire world had come crashing down around her. Twelve months since she had heard his voice, since he had told her he loved her. He said it, before he went up on that stage, when they were standing together in the snow, only inches apart, and he had looked so sure…he said he loved her, and it was the first time he had ever said it. She hadn’t thought it would be the last time.

Nothing had changed for him, in that time. He had watched the seasons go by with the same quiet confusion as he always had, spending every moment he could near her. Every moment he couldn’t spend with her was spent lost. There were a few instances where he wandered away, but he typically stayed close, unsure what to do or where he was until she returned. And still he looked at her with the same wonder that he had when they met, the same surprise at her presence in his strange world. A part of him insisted that there was no way she was meant to be here, but now that she was, he was intent on keeping her near him. Until she inevitably left, and then he was alone again.

If his memory were stronger, he might have noticed the change in her as the months passed. She still talked to him, but her voice had lowered, her gaze turned down, like she couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. Her eyes had hollowed, and she strayed away from his touch. Words seemed to fail her more often, and the length of time between her comings and goings was growing. Hours spent away from him, guilt solidifying in her stomach like a cancer, but she couldn’t bear to see him every hour of every day. It hurt too much.

He didn’t know; seconds after she was out of sight the memory of her presence slipped away from him. There was nothing for him to base a judgement of her off of, his memory was not that strong. He had only the frantic understanding that he knew her, and he loved her, and he needed to keep her safe. From what, he didn’t know, it always escaped him. His love for her was not something he tried to understand, nor could he exactly define it, let alone say it, but he loved her nonetheless. And some part of him insisted that she loved him, surely, or at least he assumed it; he could never claim fact to anything he thought, it was all coming from somewhere he couldn’t see and gone too fast to question.

He didn’t know that she was slowly slipping away from him, slowly removing herself. How could he have known? He was dependent on her entirely, she was all that he had. He couldn’t have fathomed the idea of her permanent disappearance if he tried. Nothing had permanence to him, but he always tried to keep her close to him, tried to keep her in his sight. The last hopes he had in clear moments as she left were always hopes that she would come back, surely she would come back, and everything would make sense again.

A year after it had all happened, just under a year after she had brought him home, seven months after the incident at the park, in the middle of the night, she left the house and didn’t come back. She convinced him to stay, avoiding his eyes, her voice hollowed out, but he listened. Then she got in her car and drove away, to where she didn’t really know. After an hour, her conscience kicked in, and she called Hank, leaving him a voicemail with a voice that was more hollow than she had ever sounded. Then she drove out of the city, numb falling over her like a shroud.

_“Hank...it’s me. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry...I’m sorry for what I’m about to do. But I can’t do it anymore. I need...I need to go away for a bit...I can’t take care of him right now...I don’t want to leave him in that house by himself, but...I can’t anymore, Hank, I just can’t...it’s too hard…”_

Hank didn’t get her call until the following morning. He called her back immediately, but got no response, the call declining and going straight to her voicemail. Leaving her a hasty message, he got into his car and floored it across the city toward her house. The only feeling he had running through his mind was disbelief.

 _“Kid, you call me back as soon as you get this. I’m on my way over now, but you_ _call me_ _right the fuck now.”_

She kept a spare key under the mat by her door, old school, and luckily Hank found it in seconds. Forcing his way inside, he flipped the lights on, looking around the tiny place for a sign of him. But there was nothing. Where could he have gone?

_“It’s just too much, I can’t do it anymore...but he shouldn’t be alone, Hank, he hates it, it scares him...I shouldn’t have left him there, but I couldn’t stay, I just couldn’t…”_

Hank called his name, but heard nothing in response. Silence had descended on the house like the plague, and all the light seemed to be gone from it with her disappearance. Nothing was disturbed, no signs of anyone ever being here, but he had to be here. Where else did he have to go? She said it scared him to be alone…would he have run off? Hank swore, moving on from the main room and going through the rest of the house slowly, calling his name over and over but receiving no response.

Eventually, he found him in what must have been her bedroom, looking around the place nervously. When he caught sight of Hank, he jumped, backing away and looking at Hank with confusion and something like fear. His eyes were darting a thousand different places, like he was looking for an escape route. Hank could see he’d torn up his sleeves as he pulled at the edges of them frantically. The threads were coming loose, shredded in some places and thinning in most. How long had he been doing that? Hank should have called more often, the kid was a mess, clearly.

After a few minutes, Hank managed to somehow convince him that he wasn’t going to hurt him, coaxing him slowly out of the corner, and then the room, and finally out of the house. He hesitated at the door, looking back like he expected to see something, _her_ , but Hank shook his head, pulling him along. They drove away in silence.

_“Hey, kid, it’s Hank. Listen, you need to return my calls. See unlike you, I don’t have a rich brother who I can just bum off of, I have a fucking job, I can’t keep calling off for this...that sounded bad, look—I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, you have to come back.”_

A few days passed with little incident. Luckily, Hank had worked enough in the last year to earn some time to disappear, and he was taking advantage of it now. It was almost nice to not have to go to the precinct and deal with a bunch of assholes.

But it was far from a break. He couldn’t be left alone for more than a few minutes before he’d wander off, or get confused. When it got bad, or Hank was gone for too long, they had to start back from square one. He would panic, like he thought Hank was going to attack him, and Hank would have to calm him down, try his best to convince him he was safe. Of course, this wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, because he didn’t have a clue what Hank was saying, and he forgot things minutes after they happened, especially without her around. He was lost, constantly, with only brief intermissions of clarity. Still, Hank tried his best; what else could he do?

_“It’s Hank again. Look, I’m sorry about the last call, it’s been a rough few days. Haven’t been getting much sleep, he wanders off if I leave him for too long. Listen, kid, I don’t think I should be the one doing this, he doesn’t remember me at all. He needs you, I know that sucks, but it’s true, kid, there’s no way around it. And I think you need him more than you’re admitting.”_

A month passed. She slipped quietly back into the city, back into her silent house and into her silent life. She didn’t say a word, didn’t tell Hank she was back, or anything about where she had gone. He stayed at Hank’s house, confused and in that limbo that only being away from her put him in.

Things got harder. He got more nervous, wandered off more, took longer to calm down. Hank replaced his ruined jacket, only for him to start pulling at the sleeves of the new one. Still, Hank called her every few days, and still, his calls went to voicemail. Sometimes she declined them, other times she let them ring out.

_“I’m gonna cut to the chase, here, I’m done wasting my time. This is not helping, kid, no matter how much you think it is. He’s miserable here, and I can guarantee you’re miserable there. I know this shit isn’t easy, but you brought him back for a reason. Don’t leave him now, not when he needs you like this.”_

She listened to the voicemails, but she couldn’t bring herself to fix this. If she went back now, it would be the same as it had been for a year. The same grief, the same pain, the same inability to be there for him like he needed. She needed the old him, but he was gone, and the piece she had left just wasn’t enough. She convinced herself she wasn’t fit to take care of him anymore. He needed someone who could be there for him, without this…blame, without this conflict. And she wasn’t it.

One night, nearly two months after she left him, for no particular reason at all, he left Hank’s house. Usually, when he realized he was somewhere he wasn’t meant to be, he didn’t know where to go. He got disoriented, and panicked. But now, he had the feeling he knew where to go, oddly. Hank was asleep, and didn’t notice him shuffle his way quietly out of the house. Not that he was concerned about Hank. He only felt he was not in the correct place, and he needed to get there. He didn’t try to figure out where he was going, he only went, following wherever his feet would take him.

Somehow he ended up in front of her house, staring calmly at it, a piece of that recognition resting in his eyes. He went up to the door and found it unlocked. A part of him found that odd, but he forgot it quickly. He stepped carefully inside and shut the door behind him, looking around the dark place with confusion. Why had he come here? He wasn’t sure. Even now, when he behaved most coherently, his mind was a mess.

Had he been here before? It certainly felt like it. This place...it felt like home. He didn’t even know what that word meant, but it felt right. He was supposed to be here. But something was missing from here, something terribly important.

He could hear something in the distance, a soft sound coming from one of the other rooms. It sounded familiar. He followed it blindly, a knot growing in his chest. The sound got louder as he approached it, and his pace quickened until he pushed open the bedroom door, and he froze.

She was sitting on the floor against the opposite wall, curled up with her legs drawn to her chest. Her head was resting on her knees as she looked toward the window without really seeing anything. She didn’t seem to hear him come in. There were tears streaming down her face, and her breathing was erratic as she tried to contain herself. In any other case, that would have been enough to scare him.

But she had a gun in her hand.

He stumbled forward, practically falling to his knees in front of her and wrenching the gun out of her hand. She flinched, looking up at him in shock as he pulled the gun away from her, staring at it with utter terror in his eyes. He dropped it like it was burning, shaking his head frantically as he brought his eyes back to her.

There was no confusion in his expression then; he knew what she was going to do, and he was terrified. He couldn’t let her do that, no, where did she even get a gun?

She couldn’t seem to look at him, not even as he came closer to her, reaching for her like he always did, but with more worry in his eyes than had ever been there. She flinched away from his reach, like it burned her, and he froze just before touching her.

For the first time in over a year, he pulled away, looking at her with a wounded expression as he sat down across from her, his hands returning shakily to his lap. He glanced at the gun again, but he couldn’t look at it for too long, he was too scared. Fragments of memories played before his eyes—gunshots and tears and snow and her voice—and he put his head in his hands, shaking. He didn’t understand, he didn’t know what he had done wrong, why was she trying to…

She finally looked at him as he sat there, holding his head in his hands and shaking, breathing hard. He was crying now. The guilt in her stomach solidified again, weighing painfully on her as she watched him. She had done this to him. She had broken him again, left him alone and then snuck back in like she knew it was wrong. Instead of loving him like she had promised to do, she ran away when things got hard. He needed her, and she snuck away when he wasn’t looking, knowing that he would forget she was ever there, knowing that he would be lost without her, knowing that he couldn’t be on his own anymore.

And when things got too hard again, when the guilt got too heavy, she didn’t bring him back. She didn’t go get him from Hank’s, didn’t even call. No. Instead she dug his gun out from where she had hidden it and sat on the ground. She sat on the ground and stared at the gun; she had every intention of pulling that trigger.

But she couldn’t. All she could see when she held this gun was him, on that stage, and all the fear in his eyes. He had found her in the crowd for the briefest moment, had looked at her with such sadness, and fear, and pain. She was screaming, calling his name and trying to reach him, trying to get to him in time. But he pulled the trigger. She didn’t reach him in time. He was gone before she could even get onto the stage, all the light was gone from his eyes, and she was alone, terribly terribly alone. She didn’t reach him in time.

This was different. He got to her in time. How he had found her house again she didn’t know, how Hank had let him escape she didn’t know, how he had known to come in the first place she didn’t know. She didn’t hear him come into the house, didn’t even notice as he came into the room. It was only when he ran to her and pulled the gun out of her hands that she noticed him at all. He looked nearly the same as he had when she last saw him, a little messier maybe, more uneasy. All of his nervous habits were vividly present, and he looked so scared, so much more lost than she had ever seen. The guilt hardened to a rock in her stomach at the sight of him.

But she couldn’t look at him. It hurt too much. She was ashamed. So she looked away, like she always did, left him alone. And when he reached for her, she moved away, curled up further into herself and cried. She hadn’t expected him to pull away; he never pulled away like that, he was always reaching, always trying. Perhaps he finally understood after all these months, perhaps he had finally noticed that she was removing herself from him, from everything. She couldn’t bear it; had she destroyed it all this terribly?

She didn’t see the way his eyes broke at her flinch, but she saw the way he retreated, the way he made himself small, the way he shook. Over a month removed, and she could still tell the signs of his panic. But she didn’t move. Not when he hung his head in his hands, or when he pushed himself away from her, cowered and shook, retreated further into himself. He was shutting down, he needed her. She didn’t move; she could only watch him. How had she done this? How could she have left him like this? How could she have brought him back into this, this pain? Selfish, selfish, and still she didn’t move.

Until his voice came out.

He hadn’t spoken in a year. He hadn’t made so much as a peep, not when she begged him to, pleaded with him, talked to him constantly. Nothing she did could get him to talk, to say something, anything to her. She had given up hearing his voice early, resigned that he just couldn’t do it anymore, no matter how much she wished he could, no matter how many hours she spent talking to him.

And now, now that she was silent, now that she had completely given up hope, he was mumbling something, over and over, his voice fragmented and disjointed and falling to pieces. He wasn’t looking at her, his head down, shaking horribly, and saying something into his hands through desperate breaths. His voice was broken, but in a way that was far too human; there was nothing mechanical about the cracks in his voice, nothing that she could claim was because of the damage he’d taken. This breaking in his voice was because of her, because of everything she had forced him through.

She stared at him, her tears starting fresh again as the seconds passed and he kept mumbling sadly, drawing further and further away from her. It was shock keeping her locked in place now, more than anything, shock holding her against the wall to stare at him in silence. But she snapped out of it, forcing herself toward him. There was a storm of pain in her chest now, and she couldn’t identify just what she was feeling, but she had to fix this, that she knew.

She was only a few inches away from him, hesitating in her reach to touch him. Still he winced when her hand touched his arm, a strange noise escaping him as he pulled away. He looked up at her with fear, fear that didn’t go away even as he recognized her, it only shifted.

Because he knew what she was going to do with that gun. He knew, and some part of him knew what _he_ had done with that gun, and it was tearing him apart. He knew, but he didn’t understand why, or what he had done wrong to make her do this, or anything anymore.

For a few seconds they only stared at each other, guilt and fear shared between them now. She took his hands, pulling his fingers away from his tattered sleeves, holding onto them gently. His breathing was still erratic as he looked at her hands in his, almost confused. But he grabbed them tightly in his own, and he said again what he had been mumbling, his voice halting, stumbling over the word.

It was her name.

He remembered her name.

He _remembered_ her.

A thousand different emotions flew through her eyes at that moment, finally settling on something like relief as her tears gained more momentum and she pulled him to her. He didn’t fight her this time, letting her put her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder. They held onto each other tightly, neither of them really steady in that moment, but the ground they had lost seemed to have come back at least a little. He was still shaking, and mumbling her name desperately, like he was trying to fix it in his mind, never forget it again. She was trying to reconcile the mess inside her, the guilt with the relief with the love with the pain. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to fix all of this, how she was going to put herself back together and take care of him, and make it all up to him.

But for now, it was enough to hold him close and hear him stumble through her name. It was enough to have some kind of proof that he remembered her, and proof that he loved her, just as much as he always had. Because as broken as everything was, as scarred as they had become, the love was still there. That wouldn’t go away, no matter what happened. She had thought it was gone when she left, she had thought it gone when he pulled away from her, but it wasn’t gone, it was only misplaced, lost for a moment, only to be found again.

They would do better this time. They would save each other this time. A fragment was a fragment, but it was enough to carry on, enough to remember and to forgive, to hold on and to come back.

It was enough.


End file.
